


The Brain & The Heart

by erictheskellington



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erictheskellington/pseuds/erictheskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some sort of re-telling of Beauty and the Beast but with Sherlock.<br/>It sort of just happened and now I may have to finish it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brain & The Heart

**Prologue**

**_____________________________________________________________________**

I genuinely have no idea what this is…

I kind of just sat and my computer and wrote. What I seem to have ended up with is the beginnings of a Beauty & the Beast type deal but we will see how this turns out!

**_____________________________________________________________________**

 

 

Sherlock couldn’t remember his childhood, he’d deleted it is as irrelevant. But the one thing he could remember, that he seemed unable to delete, was that his mother used to sing to him.

 

He could remember that she would put her arms around him, her shawl wrapped around the both of them and he’d be enveloped in the smells of home and safety, protected from the world and she would sing.

 

_“I will take you through the magic dancing wood_

_And I will take you where the goblins are all good_

_I will take you where the elves and pixies do sing_

_And I will take you round the magic fairy ring_

_Bow your head and let your eyelids close on down_

_Where we're going you won't need to bring your frown…”_

She would sing him songs of the fair folk and the goblins that tricked little boys and girls into their caves never to be heard of again. Songs of the witches and the wild things, the things that hid in the dark and could destroy you with a word or ensnare you with a glance.

 

She sung him warnings and she sung him his dreams that he shaped from her words.

 

Sometimes when she sang it would be barely above a whisper, the words and melody hanging in the air for a second before being chased away but still just ringing in his mind and as he would drift off to sleep.

 

Other times when his mother was busy at her work or they were dancing together around the grounds, she would sing so loud that the music bounced off the rafters and filled the dusty place they existed in with life and excitement once more.

 

Sherlock would try and sing like her but it was one of the few things he could never master. Instead he played the violin like his mother would play her voice, and they would duet. His mother’s words and his violin’s strings producing a perfect harmony and he was happy.

 

Then his mother died and all the happiness left him.

 

The dark crept into the house without her light and he grew bitter and cruel.

 

His father had been gone before he was born and his brother was busy with his plans and schemes.

 

So there was no one to tell him that there could still be light in his dark world. No one to explain to him that he could let the wounds his mother’s death caused heal instead of fester and infect him with their darkness further.

 

By the time his brother looked up from his empire and noticed what had become of his beloved little brother he thought it too late to save the brilliant child, now a bitter young man, and he wept for the loss but did not lift a hand to try and help or to fix him. He too had been twisted by the world and did not think he could pull his brother from the shadows anymore then he thought he could save himself.

 

Then Moriarty came.

 

He believed that he and Sherlock were made for each other. That together they could remake the world in their image, to their – his – design and it would be glorious and they would be deadly.

 

But Sherlock could still remember his mother singing the warnings of the witches and the bad folk to him and could not align himself with the mad man, because as much as he would deny it and act as if it wasn’t so, he still had some goodness buried in his heart.

 

Moriarty seethed and raged, but Sherlock would not change his mind. So Moriarty cursed him and gave him until his 30th year to break the curse or he would come back and claim the beast and the man would be forever forgotten.

 

Sherlock locked himself away to his mysteries and his murders.

 

He ignored the curse and counted the days until he would loose himself forever, as much as it ate at his pride he could not see a way out of his fate.

 

For who could love a beast.


End file.
